


a man who cried for love

by JennaCupcakes



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is a 5971-year-old virgin, Crowley’s handlebar mustache 80s look was directly inspired by gay longing after Freddie Mercury, Having Gay Thoughts About Your Best Friend, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 01:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20166067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: Aziraphale slept with Oscar Wilde. Crowley finds out and tries to get revenge on him. Freddie Mercury is there. It’s a mess, and that’s before Crowley starts drinking.





	a man who cried for love

It had all started with Aziraphale, in passing, mentioning his affair with Oscar Wilde.

Up until that point, it had been a perfectly lovely day. They’d had lunch. They had gone to the park, where pigeons had eaten most of the feed Aziraphale had brought for the ducks and Aziraphale had pouted about it. The afternoon had passed by without either of them really paying any mind to the passage of time – Crowley hungry for Aziraphale’s company, Aziraphale enjoying the laziness of it all – until they’d found their way back to the bookshop, where a bottle of wine had been opened. Late afternoon morphed into something that could resemble early evening, morphed into proper evening. The lights of Soho came on. Aziraphale miracled them some snacks. Crowley took care of the wine. Crowley teased and Aziraphale responded stiffly, up until –

“There’s no need to be insulting, Crowley. Of course I’ve had sex before.”

That had brought the nice part of the day to a screeching halt for Crowley.

Aziraphale didn’t _have sex_. Maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale had slept with someone. He might make love. But he didn’t _fuck_. Because that would mean…

“Who with, then?” Crowley asked, hating himself for it.

If Aziraphale had sex, that meant…

“Oh, that’s really no concern of yours, is it?”

Aziraphale looked down at his glass, seemingly regretting the comment. His cheeks were flushed, and in virtually any other situation, Crowley would have been beyond happy at the sight, but right now it sparked something angry in his gut.

“Still alive then, is she?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale, if possible, looked even more uncomfortable.

“Famous, too?” Crowley guessed, incredulously. This couldn’t possibly be real. Maybe this wasn’t his Aziraphale. Maybe Heaven had sent some kind of Doppelganger. Or, more believably still, Hell had.

“He,” Aziraphale said pointedly, “Has been dead for about seventy years.”

Crowley didn’t know if that made it better or worse – that he had been correct about Aziraphale not having sex for most of their acquaintance, but that he had then gotten curious and hadn’t…

… Hadn’t asked Crowley about it.

“Have you, then?” Aziraphale asked, apparently determined not to remain alone in this mortification.

“Oh no, we’re not finished with you,” Crowley said quickly, “So you want me to believe that a hundred years ago you just found some bloke and had a quick shag?”

“There’s no need to be lewd!” Aziraphale said.

“I’m just not going to believe it unless you give me a name, angel.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms. “I don’t know what concern that is of yours.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

Crowley drained the last of his glass and got up. He couldn’t sit still anymore. If he looked at Aziraphale, he might combust.

“I suppose there’s no harm in it now,” Aziraphale sighed, “After all, even his contemporaries knew of his _inclinations_.”

This couldn’t possibly be real. Crowley _had_ to turn back towards Aziraphale, even though it killed him.

“Oscar Wilde,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s jaw dropped. 

* * *

The whole thing had been very unpleasant. Crowley had been incredulous, Aziraphale had been insulted, and they had parted ways on less than friendly terms – again. Crowley was frustrated (interpersonally, but mostly sexually), and Aziraphale was not convinced of Crowley’s good intentions. Well, he had that part right.

But thoughts were fermenting in Crowley’s head.

Aziraphale – the angel Crowley had come to think of as _his_, no matter how inappropriate or aspirational this possessive pronoun was – had had sex. With Oscar Wilde.

Crowley couldn’t stop picturing it. This was surely some cruel torture brought on by the fact that he hadn’t seen Aziraphale in less than three layers of clothing since Roman times, but he wondered what it had been like for the poet – the damned, accursed poet – to slowly strip back those layers of Aziraphale, to see his body naked the way God had made it, to kiss the pale skin, the flesh of him…

Crowley, thumping his head against the seat of the Bentley, groaned.

Aziraphale didn’t feel that way about him. He could lay these thoughts to rest. If Aziraphale was interested in sex, but hadn’t asked Crowley, that was a clear answer to any fantasies Crowley might have entertained.

Oscar Wilde, though.

Well, it only made sense. The angel loved his books. Crowley just hadn’t known _how much_…

This wasn’t helping. Crowley started the car and put it into first gear with rather more force than necessary. The engine howled as he accelerated.

He didn’t have a particular destination in mind, but nights and moods like these had their own logic. Crowley knew all the dark, seedy bars where a man wouldn’t be asked too many questions and could lose himself for a while in the music, the smell of sweat and cheap, sticky alcohol.

He’d hoped. Things had steadily been improving between Aziraphale and him. There was a spark – _something_ – that was undeniable, though both Crowley and Aziraphale denied it frequently. These days, Crowley tried not to think too often about a night in Soho, three years prior – or was it four already? – Aziraphale backlit by colourful lights, a pained expression on his face that spoke of longing and the hope blooming in Crowley’s chest that _maybe_, just maybe, _one day_…

But of course, Oscar Wilde. Living – well, not really – proof that evidently, Aziraphale didn’t mind _other people_ going a little fast.

He parked the Bentley, pulled the handbrake. If somebody tried to steal his car, they would be in for a nasty surprise. Crowley was in a foul mood.

Maybe Wilde had taken his time with Aziraphale. Maybe it had been slow and ever-so-sweet. Maybe Aziraphale had made all those little noises he usually made over desert, the way he couldn’t help himself. Crowley was half hard just thinking about it, and that did nothing to improve his mood.

He ordered a beer at the bar, something dark and heavy and Belgian that was the right kind of opulent and always managed to get him drunk quickly without leaving a splitting headache in the morning. The only cause for a splitting headache would be an angel – not _his_ angel, he had to remember – who always acted so prim and proper, a tease around Crowley, and who _did not want him_.

The bar was full to burst. Music was coming loud over the speakers, drowning out some of Crowley’s more self-pitying thoughts.

_Now I don't know where you come from, baby;_  
Don't know where you've been, my baby;  
Heaven must have sent you;  
Into my arms…

Crowley threw his hands up. He was cursed. That was the only explanation at this point. Aziraphale fucked, and Crowley was fucked. Unrelatedly.

He drank half the beer in rather quick gulps, which made him feel vaguely nauseous.

“Careful, darling. That’s expensive beer your wasting there.”

Crowley didn’t so much turn as cast a sidelong glance at the young man who had slid onto the barstool next to him. He had the kind of hairdo that was modern but required a lot of hairspray to be held in place, but hairspray didn’t hold up well in the humid atmosphere of the club. His long, slender fingers were wrapped around a glass of white wine that was still half full – unlike Crowley’s beer.

He was watching Crowley with interest. Crowley could tell. A demon could always tell, which was probably why he should have picked up on Aziraphale’s distinct lack of any such interest sooner.

And alright, there was a possibility that Crowley had picked a gay bar out of spite. If Aziraphale could have his fun, well – then Crowley could have his.

He decided to turn and raise an eyebrow at the man, cocked with aloof interest. Again, he was aware of how he looked – the velvet blazer, the tight jeans, the sunglasses. Crowley could be the reason for many an awakening same-sex desire, and he didn’t even break a sweat. But usually for him, the fun was all in the chase, none in the capture.

He’d told himself it was really small change, tempting people like that. But if Aziraphale did it, then well… Why should Crowley hold back?

“It won’t be the last one tonight,” Crowley said.

The man – he looked young, in his mid-twenties, maybe – was wearing an open, floral-patterned button-down shirt unbuttoned almost all the way down his chest. He had the hint of a five-o’-clock shadow on his cheeks and dark brown eyes that looked incredibly warm contrasted with the light of the club.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Crowley. Crowley took one, suddenly glad he’d painted his nails (well, thought about painting his nails and then achieving said end result by way of a miracle) earlier. He leaned over so that the man could light his cigarette.

“What’s your name?” He asked him after a long drag of his cigarette.

“Freddie.”

The man had lit his own cigarette.

“What’s yours?”

“Anthony,” Crowley said, the borrowed name rolling of his tongue with ease that came through practise. He’d always loved blending in with humanity, in all the ways Aziraphale didn’t.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Crowley tasted the cigarette and tried not to put too much defiance into each drag. It wasn’t like Aziraphale could _see_ him. The angel probably didn’t even care what he got up to.

Crowley finished his first beer and ordered another one – dark and Belgian, he could feel the combination begin to fog up his mind and numb him some way.

“Are you alone here tonight, Anthony?”

There was something in the pitch of the man’s voice that made Crowley shiver. Something that scratched the itch that he had felt since he’d left Aziraphale’s. He turned to look again at his drinking companion, and the look from those dark eyes was telling. Crowley knew lust. It pleased and frightened him to see it directed at himself.

“Quite,” He managed. His mouth felt dry. He took another sip of his beer. That did nothing for the dry feeling. Neither did his gaze, wandering down the other man’s chest.

Again, they sat and drank together in silence. Crowley was proud of himself for not jumping out of his skin when he felt a hand, gently caressing his upper thigh. He swallowed.

“If you want to get out of here…” He said and hated how affected he sounded. It was only a stranger, touching him gently but with purpose. It wasn’t the man he wanted, and yet it felt a whole lot better than whatever Crowley had been feeling before. Aziraphale could go fuck himself, or fuck Oscar Wilde again.

Except that would be difficult, seeing how Wilde was dead.

Crowley wrenched his thoughts back to the present.

“Sure,” Freddie said.

Crowley sobered up enough to drive, though he also left enough alcohol coursing through his system that he didn’t have to deal with the jumble of emotions his brain wanted to throw at him. His companion appreciated the sleek interior of the Bentley, and Crowley preened just a little bit – he was a demon, he was supposed to be a vain creature. Or at least, it didn’t strictly go against Downstairs Policy.

Crowley’s apartment had one wall covered in floral wallpaper. The cabinets were modern, stylish, with the fake wood pattern that was all the rage these days. He’d even invested in a colour television, though he found the novelty faded quickly. His experimental houseplants were sitting up on a windowsill, which reminded Crowley that he’d been meaning to find a different spot for them for the past two weeks. He needed to get on that.

Freddie behind him – Crowley wondered what it was short for, Frederick? – entered and looked around, touching nothing until Crowley gestured towards the leather sofa. When he sat, it was with his legs splayed open and a grin on his face that seemed boyish and inviting. Crowley’s palms felt sweaty.

“Drinks?” He asked.

“Sure.”

Crowley went through his liquor cabinet and found a bottle of wine. It was a nice red, one he had been saving for Aziraphale, and the sound of the bottle as he pulled out the cork was extremely satisfying. It wasn’t as if Crowley could only have fun with Aziraphale. This proved it, didn’t it?

He came back with two glasses filled to the brim. Not classy, but he didn’t care. He took a long gulp, then sat down next to Freddie, closer than propriety would allow.

Their knees touched. It sent a jolt through the whole of Crowley.

Crowley wondered if he should say something. They hadn’t really talked much. Usually, with Aziraphale, that meant that there was nothing to talk about, but that was because they already knew everything there was to know about one another. Well, Crowley thought with contempt, not _everything_…

He set his glass down rather forcefully and turned towards the other man. Freddie perked up expectantly. Crowley kissed him.

Alright, so he _had_ kissed people before. It was all the rage way back when, even as a casual greeting. Once or twice, things had even gone a little further – a little tongue, a little nip, a wandering hand – but never like this, with the promise of _more_ hovering in the air thick as cigarette smoke. It made his whole body jittery, his palms too sweaty, and Crowley was suddenly painfully aware that every item of clothing on his body was made of synthetic fabric. He had forgotten to remember not to sweat, and it was showing.

His partner didn’t seem to care. He rose up from where he’d been leaning back against the plush leather of the couch, chasing Crowley’s mouth and pressing his back into the armrest. Crowley shivered when he felt it, suddenly glad to not have to be in control anymore, because he didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was that if Aziraphale did this, then Crowley certainly should, and it didn’t matter that Aziraphale didn’t want him; somebody else evidently did.

That thought sparked a fire in him, and he kissed back with renewed vigour. Freddie’s shirt was already half unbuttoned, and Crowley made short work of the rest. Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, Crowley thought the sensation of warm, soft skin under his hands wasn’t too bad – on the contrary, it was quite enjoyable.

Had Aziraphale felt like this? Had he been amazed at the little pleasures just as Crowley was now? Had he felt a little shy, a little desperate, a little out of his depth?

Crowley felt his blazer being pushed off his shoulders, and hands wandering under the turtleneck he was wearing. They settled on a firm grip on his hip, and Crowley couldn’t help the little twitch of it at that.

Oh, this was no task for angels. It was primal, instinctive, lustful, and dark. And still, Aziraphale had –

Crowley silenced his thoughts by pushing his tongue into the other man’s mouth and doing something clever with it that wasn’t – strictly speaking – humanly possible. In response, he found himself pulled closer into the other man’s lap. One hand found his crotch and squeezed, a teasing reminder, and Crowley couldn’t help but groan.

Fuck Aziraphale.

Oh, but he wanted to. He wanted this man, in whose lap he was lying, who had him hard and kissed him with an open mouth, to be his stuffy, proper, gorgeous angel.

To hell with it. He was here to forget about Aziraphale, and yet he couldn’t keep his thoughts from wandering. Why couldn’t he just have one night where he didn’t have to remember that the only being in the universe he’d ever loved, whose company he craved and whose touch he longed for… didn’t want him?

The sob that left Crowley’s throat caught him unawares.

Freddie pulled back, a puzzled expression on his face as though he wasn’t quite sure if he had heard correctly. Crowley couldn’t meet those sun-warm brown eyes that were so unlike Aziraphale’s. Everything in him seemed to have been turned inside out, the thoughts he had buried deepest rising to the surface and breaking his composure. He felt raw, like one touch would send him spiralling.

There was no playing it cool, though Crowley still tried. The glossy look of his eyes gave him away.

“You alright, darling?”

Freddie put a steadying hand on Crowley’s arm.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Crowley said, which was the most obvious lie in the history of creation. He wanted to lunge forward, to kiss Freddie again so that he could forget his momentary weakness, maybe feel a little less like a fledgling bird without feathers, but Freddie put a second hand on his shoulder and held him back.

“Hey,” He said.

Crowley choked on this sob.

“He doesn’t… he doesn’t want me!”

In his time on Earth, Crowley had become quite adept at controlling the words that came out of his mouth. He knew just what to say and when to say it so that humans followed his will and did his bidding. It was easy, when one’s brain didn’t technically work the same way a human brain did. Crowley had never experienced the mortification of blurting out one’s darkest secret – until just now.

There was a moment’s hesitation as Freddie was piecing together Crowley’s breakdown. Then – a knowing nod.

“He’s not that way inclined, huh?”

Bloody Oscar Wilde. Aziraphale could have hooked up with Sappho or Mary Shelley and left Crowley to think… but no. Eventually, Crowley would have snapped and made an effort in that direction and likely experienced the same disappointment. It was him. Aziraphale didn’t want him. Or he would have asked.

“No,” Crowley said pathetically, “He’s just not into me.”

Crowley was just crying now. He’d never cried like this, ugly sobs and heaving breaths. He should be able to stop this with a moment’s thought, and yet he found there was something oddly cathartic about it. To hell with his composure, then.

“I just found out today,” He said, his voice hoarse, “I thought we had something, but…”

_You go to fast for me_, he had said. He’d looked Crowley in the eye and told him that, while not ninety years prior, he had fucked Oscar Wilde. The sting of it. The unholy, disappointing burn of it.

Freddie pulled him into a hug. Crowley didn’t think in nearly six thousand years of existence he’d ever been hugged. He thought of mortality and the fleetingness of human connections and that he’d never sought out this particular comfort with anybody but Aziraphale. Staring down the long stretch of immortality this moment seemed futile. Closing his eyes and breathing in deep, however, nothing was more real than the pleasantly masculine smell of the other man and the solidity of his chest and the weight of his arms.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t the kind of night you were hoping for,” Crowley mumbled into his chest. As a response, he felt a delicate, long-fingered hand gently stroke his back.

“It’s alright, my dear.”

This tore a new sob from Crowley’s throat. Through wet eyes and a stuffed nose, Crowley explained: “That’s what he used to call me!”

“Oh no,” Freddie said. Crowley could only agree.

He went back to burying his face in Freddie’s chest. This was pathetic. He couldn’t even get revenge on Aziraphale, because it wasn’t fair to Freddie, to Crowley, or to Aziraphale.

Crowley took a deep breath, sat up, and miracled a convenient tissue into the breast pocket of his blazer, which was still lying pooled around him on the couch. He wiped his face.

“Look, I’m sorry about this,” Crowley said.

He only did a double take when Freddie was silent for a strange amount of time: he sat, as though immobilized by an invisible force, on the couch. Crowley was ninety percent sure he was not responsible for this, except –

His sunglasses sat askew on his face.

“Oh,” Crowley said. Belatedly, he righted his sunglasses.

“Are those contacts?” Freddie asked in a tone of voice that suggested he knew they weren’t contacts. Crowley sighed.

“It’s complicated, alright?”

Freddie got up slowly.

“Alright,” He agreed, “I’m sure I don’t need to know more.”

Crowley’s shoulders sagged. This man had been nothing but kind and generous to him, and here he was, giving him the worst and weirdest story about a not-quite-hookup that he could manage. This couldn’t even count as demonic. It was just pathetic.

“I’ll see you out,” Crowley said. He picked up Freddie’s shirt and handed it to the man, then accompanied him to the door, ambling behind him with limbs that were too long and a body that felt too constraining.

At the door, Freddie seemed to have gathered some of his composure.

“Anthony…”

His voice was tinted with compassion. Crowley had almost forgotten what compassion without pity sounded like. Freddie turned, one hand on the doorframe, again with those warm eyes and a look that said _I know, I’ve been here, I’m sorry_.

“I really hope it works out for you.”

He placed a hand on Crowley’s cheek – long-fingered and delicate – and leaned forward to press a lingering, soft kiss to Crowley’s lips. Crowley balled his hands into fists to keep the tears at bay.

Crowley watched Freddie leave, then closed the door and leaned back against it, closed his eyes and decided it was time for a week’s sleep.

He didn’t find out about Queen until two years later, and it took him until 1975 to put two and two together. The penny dropped the first time he heard Bohemian Rhapsody on the radio.

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me!_

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what to say. All I know is that I had the idea while making waffle dough two days ago and it wouldn’t leave me alone. I want to thank my boyfriend for providing help with vocabulary and seasidesonnets for reading all of my Good Omens fic, no matter how ridiculous. Title adapted from Queen’s ‘The Prophet’s Song’. The Song Crowley hears in the bar is Heaven Must Have Sent You by The Elgins.  
Since this is my first Good Omens fic not directly inspired by a Hozier song, let me instead share the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1m8jSSWyLyrpjvzoC3chlY?si=ga0Nn4Y8SL6KavvZ8NDSwQ) that I made to procrastinate on writing this fic.  
You can find me on tumblr at [veganthranduil](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/), where I won’t be apologizing for this ridiculousness.  
Lastly, I want to say that no disrespect was meant to the very real people whose public image i pirated for this fic. This is a work of fiction, and should be read as such.  
Comments are – as always – appreciated.


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